Biography of James Atkins
Most of the time, I enjoy writing. My problem is that I get frustrated easily, especially if I can't articulate what I'm feeling.
I guess that's the way I write - not really to deliver a specific message, but to try to convey the feeling or the image that was with me at the time.
Why do I write that way? Well, I guess I believe that we're all islands - I've never been sure that our eyes all see the same things, that apples taste the same to everyone, or if blue doesn't look orange to the rest of the population. Emotions, feelings, thoughts, beliefs - all that sort of stuff is on another magnitude of complexity altogether, so what are the odds that anyone truly understands anyone else?
The way I see it, if what I write makes you feel something, then I'm truly starting to communicate. And if by some fluke you manage to share the exact frame of mind I was in at the time I was writing, well, that's just about as close to real communication that two people can get. And that seems worthwhile to me.
James Atkins Poems
Women walking in the park 'neath branches drenched in light summer dresses, low cut tops and smiles that invite
Surge through the black, like a ragged flood of wind The past is at your back, You don't notice it begin.
If destiny is manifest and fate is set in stone then nothing that you'll ever do is down to you alone
Don't go out again tonight, to walk the streets alone. Don't follow train-tracks til dawn's light, That will not lead you home.
Dragging a ragged cloud of changed addresses and broken trust Stumbling away from forgettable months Defensively clinging to the name of a ghost That stares accusingly from mirrors -
The first touch of the morning, diesel fumes turning the frost-smell blunt. last night's storm diluted in the muted roar of the garbage truck in the next street
I have to work in 4 hours and its 2am but I'm not really awake just steeped in apathy
Beneath the pale glow of a sky choked with clouds where moonlight seemed merely suggestion, Three of us walked through the wind’s muted rush Under branches we’d climbed long ago.
She steps onto a packed train the epicentre of a shockwave of faceless humanity rippling out and away, shuffling back from the mischievous flash of her eyes
Noonday Shadows Burning
How long do you think you have left until you die? I was wondering if it really matters, not conversationally but in the Grand Scheme of Things
The fires of the sun will die, draining heaven's light. Stars will stretch across the sky, in cold eternal night.
With every moment passing, I die a little more. I'm deader now today, than I've ever been before.
The hot afternoons of childhood holidays when the sky stretched pale blue and hills were swathed in knee high grass tinder dry, drought-brown,
Creatures of habit, they choose the same carriage, making a journey that punctuates their shortening lives like a space between paragraphs at the end of each day, lost in a soulless addiciton to routine
I have to work in 4 hours and
its 2am but
I'm not really awake just
steeped in apathy
I'm thirsty but not enough
to change my situation -
(to go to the fridge for another diet pepsi) but
I think about how great it would be